


unravel

by SpectacularNostalgia



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Tokyo Ghoul, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Changing Tenses, Dark, Feral Behavior, Food is People, Ghoul Cannibalism (Tokyo Ghoul), Ghoul!Peter, Ghouls, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Jealousy, M/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 06:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14636034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectacularNostalgia/pseuds/SpectacularNostalgia
Summary: The hunger has always been a constant thing, but it's neverthisbad.Peter has been ignoring it for over fifteen years now, why does it demand so much from himnow? He never asked for this, he never wanted this, and yet here he was: alone, half-mad and half-starved, in some dark alleyway full of garbage and human waste.Then his world unravels.





	unravel

**Author's Note:**

> edge lord incoming
> 
> Also, I just picked some elements from Tokyo Ghoul that I liked, and knowledge of it ain't necessary.
> 
> Accompanying art: https://spectacular-nostalgia.tumblr.com/post/173931842330/i-may-have-taken-a-loooooooooooot-of-inspiration

It’s so easy to get lost in New York. Darkness creeps along the edges of alleyways. Mass walking hurriedly from place to place, uncaring and unaware. The never-ending gridlocks and clusters of cars turn it into a cage of metal and enraged drivers, numbs its inhabitants to the horrors that lie just in their peripheries.

It was so easy to ignore the monsters lurking in the dark— wearing friendly faces and reassuring smiles, hiding the hunger and snapping teeth, blood in his hands and screams echoing behind his ears long after he’s done.

Peter hasn’t seen Uncle Ben and Aunt May for two weeks.

He couldn’t go home. Not like this. Where every moment is torture, that every whiff of breath makes him salivate and starve. Where whispers of ‘just a bite’ follow him and knows that he will be forgiven a hundred times over even if he takes more than one. He couldn’t subject his family to that, they don’t deserve it, least of all from him.

Almost all his life, the hunger a distant humming at the back of Peter’s head, always there but somehow sated. Ever since that bite, it exploded into a cacophony demanding Peter to satisfy it—yet no matter how much he ate, it never abated, if anything, it grew _bigger_.

Then there came the nightmares. Overflowing blood and torn flesh, bones crunching and eyeballs melting like candy.

Peter already told them he’s fine, guilt pushing him to give them a call a day after leaving. He doesn’t want them to worry or send the police after him. As long as he lets them know he’s okay, they shouldn’t be doing anything drastic.

That doesn’t stop Uncle Ben from looking for Peter, anyway.

Peter has been following the man, makes sure that Uncle Ben doesn’t go to alleys where shadows gather and monsters like Peter wait. Makes sure that Uncle Ben never steers away from people. Safety in numbers. Like prey.

Peter shakes the thought off so hard he’s terrified his mind had come loose.

Uncle Ben still gets messages, Peter begging him to go home, begs Uncle Ben to leave and that Peter can take care of himself.

And isn’t that a funny thought? Three weeks ago, Peter could barely stand up to Flash. Now, Peter can easily see his teeth sinking on Flash’s pale neck, the flesh soft and tender and full of life, pulsating under Peter’s tongue as he laps the blood spurting from Flash’s throat in rivulets and—

Peter muffles a sob as he bites his hand.

He shudders, fights back tears as he shakes the fantasy off violently. His stomach aches in protest, gums aching with need. Peter doesn’t break through the skin, he tastes salt and sweetness that goes along with pork—but it’s disgusting to his palate and Peter wonders why couldn’t he just grab the nearest human and devour _them_ instead.

His teeth pierces skin, and the taste of his own blood makes him choke. Peter spits it out, retching and crying as his stomach acids crawl up his throat and leave a burning bitterness that churns in his gut.

“Get out of the way!”

Peter moves aside, chest aching and knees weak. He meets wide blue eyes, frantic and Peter can smell the guilt and fear emanating in _waves_ from the man. The stranger was probably in his late thirties, prematurely grey, and his scruff’s close to a beard now; his clothes are non-descript too, worn and filthy, and Peter sees the gun in his left hand and a sack with bills peeking out on the other.

There’s another pang of hunger that burns its way up to Peter’s throat, and he covers his nose and lets the man pass through the narrow alleyway. He stares long and hard, blinking at how surreal that moment is, hunger temporarily forgotten. Twenty-dollar bills lie on the filthy ground, and Peter couldn’t find the motivation to pick them up, so he could give it to Uncle Ben and Aunt May for all the trouble he put them through.

A strange prickling runs up Peter’s arms, makes all the hair on the back of his neck stand, like alarm bells at the back of his head. His feet start moving before Peter realizes it, and the klaxons inside his skull grow louder with every step. Dread fills Peter as he turns around the corner and sees the stranger with his back to Peter, and Uncle Ben, in close quarters.

His legs feel like they’re stuck in molasses as he runs, not fast enough to stop.

Blood hits Peter’s nose like ambrosia, his stomach growls in pain and Peter wonders why he hadn’t eaten yet. In that moment, he loses all rationality and all Peter could think of is to feed. He’s so _hungry_. He couldn’t possibly go on another night without eating. He couldn’t live like this for the rest of his life, half-mad and in pain. He just _couldn’t_. But Peter doesn’t let go.

Then his world unravels.

* * *

 

The funeral is a sombre affair, full of friends and whatever that remains of his father’s and Uncle Ben’s family.

Aunt May’s gripping his hand too tight, and Peter wants to apologize a hundred times over. He understands her. He would hold back just as hard if he doesn’t have to worry about crushing her bones. They only have each other left, and Peter feels so horrible for leaving instead of telling them just _why_ he left.

Ben Parker looked so relaxed and peaceful, and all knots of stress gone from his face.

He shouldn’t be dead. Peter should have known better than to let someone get close to Ben when the man had been trying to find him for the past week. He could have stopped the burglar—used his strength, grab the man with his _claws_ , not _move_. Anything.

Now, it’s too late to change a thing.

Except, Peter still remembers the fear and paranoia and smell it a mile away, remembers the murderer’s face—it’s practically _child’s_ play.

The thought of hunting the human down, cornering him— _playing_ with him—sent a thrill down Peter’s spine. It’s far too easy. Aunt May’s already exhausted enough, would barely notice if Peter sneaks out in the middle of the night, would pretend everything’s fine even if Peter came home with blood and gore splatter all over his face. She would forgive him a thousand times over, and Peter wishes he doesn’t know that.

Uncle Ben and Aunt May had always been forgiving.

So… Peter goes through the motions, ignores the sharp stabs of pain from his gullet as Uncle Ben’s casket lowers to the ground, comforts Aunt May as best as he could, and accepts condolences from friends and family in attendance. Slowly, all in attendance trickle out until it’s just Peter and Aunt May left, staring at Uncle Ben’s tombstone.

“When we were younger,” Aunt May began, wiping a few tears from her eyes. “He said he’d want to do something incredible, and last week, he kept telling me that he still hadn’t found the chance.”

Peter clenched his fists, feels his bones creak, and tries not to break. “But he already did. He did so much—he shouldn’t be _dead_. I shouldn’t have run away—he doesn’t deserve _this.”_

“Peter, bad things happen all the time and there are horrible people everywhere. It’s not your fault, sweetie.”

That doesn’t mean Peter will do nothing about it.

* * *

 

It’s been a week, yet the smell of Ben Parker’s blood is as fresh as ever—the fear and guilt that trails after it, similarly so.

Excitement hummed beneath Peter’s skin, made his heart beat hard and fast inside his ribs, made him too aware of anything and everything. It’s easier to push the starvation aside now that Peter’s focus is hunting down a specific prey, could already imagine the relief it will bring him once he catches Uncle Ben’s murderer. The anticipation feels like it made his sense of smell stronger, and the closer Peter got to the source, the sooner he can _feed_.

Peter’s little hunt took him to some place with less people, where eyes watch behind the safety of doors and windows, where unsavory people lurk behind every corner. Unsurprisingly, the trail ends in an abandoned two-story warehouse, almost all of its windows are boarded up and an enormous chain link keep the reinforced doors locked. He doesn’t enter, instead, circles around the warehouse, looking for an opening.

Peter finds one—light filters out of a window from the second floor, and Peter climbs up the walls.

He knew enough to wear dark and maneuverable clothing—a navy scarf, a grey hoodie, dark trousers, and hiking boots—Peter almost blends in with the sooty bricks, and no one from inside notices when he slowly pushes the window open to get in.

The smell of paranoia and guilt is thick inside that Peter almost chokes. The source huddles at a corner in front of a vanity, muttering as he counts his prize, lamplight is his only lamination. The murderer doesn’t even realize he’s no longer alone.

“He tried to help you, didn’t he?”

The human jumps, and the spike of fear makes the excitement thrum and overflow from Peter’s veins until he’s heady with it. Peter has to consciously stop himself from _drooling,_ wondering just _why_ it’s taking forever to eat. Then remembers this isn’t just a meal.

This is retribution.

“Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about—how did you even—” The man scrambles for his gun, but he doesn’t reach it. Peter already has a hand on the human’s throat, raises him to the wall, and breathes in the delicious smell of _meat_. “You! You’re that kid—fuck!”

“He was my uncle,” Peter said, voice low and far too calm. “You killed him. He just wanted to help.”

“Please, kid, you’re no killer. Don’t kill me! Please—fuck! You want money? Take it! Take everything!” Peter tilts his head to the side curiously, much like a cat, stares in amusement.

“I haven’t eaten in a while,” Peter continues, considering. His stomach lets out an eager growl in agreement. He throws the man over the vanity and exposes the scruff-covered throat.

“Re-really?” The human’s trembling like a leaf in fear, babbles and begs. “Just take the money! Please don’t kill me—treat yourself to a meal, fuck! Just don’t hurt me—I have—”

Peter tightens his grip, and the man shuts up. “I’m pretty hungry, actually. I could eat right now.”

And Peter does.

The man screams as Peter’s teeth sink in his throat, and Peter lets out a happy hum as he feels blood slide down his throat as it settles down in his belly. It’s warm and filling and just as delicious as Aunt May’s meals, and the flavor just _melts_ in Peter’s tongue. He could feel the human trying to fight him off, punching and kicking and _screaming_ , but Peter barely notices it—if at _all_.

Eventually, the struggling dies off, and Peter lets go.

The human’s eyes stare sightlessly at the dim bulb above them, but Peter still had his face pressing on the man’s bleeding neck. Slowly, he starts to tear strips of skin and muscle with his teeth, the flesh easily giving against his strength, and Peter begins to chew. It’s soft and tender, and Peter’s in total bliss as he swallows.

Peter strips the corpse to reach for more meat, gorges himself on sinew and fat, reaches between the bones, and saves the innards and eyes last.

Hours pass, and Peter’s close to bursting.

Jagged clumps hang from what used to be a human being, his intestines and other innards are splayed out like bloody ribbons—distended stomach flapping about like a deflated balloon, heart and lungs already picked out and left fleshy tubes hanging listlessly, and inside the man’s cavity was this strange yellowish bile-like liquid with what looks to be half-digested food. The rest of the man wasn’t any better, Peter left teeth marks that go through layers of fat and muscle and sinew, made indents on the bones and the marrow sucked dry after breaking the joints. The human’s face barely qualifies as one—both sockets are gouged out, thick red fluid dripping out like yolks, skull bashed in as grey matter leaked out of the ears like tiny pink worms.

Peter really wants to finish all of him, until there’s nothing left but bones, but he’s so full that he can’t possibly take another bite. However, the hunger that has been plaguing him ever since that field trip to ESU _finally_ abates. A satisfied haze settles on Peter, and he has all the time in the world because no one would be looking for this criminal out of many and no one likes going to shady abandoned warehouses.

Unless they’re criminals themselves.

Peter blinks. Realizes this.

And _smiles._

**Author's Note:**

> why peter ain't throwing up when eating human food will be explained later. along with enduring the hunger for flesh thing since forever.
> 
> On another note:
> 
> Want to talk to me in DMs? Come join this lil server I made for SpiderVenom fans!
> 
> https://discord.gg/z4X5vk8


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